


Sanctuary

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Plot What Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-17
Updated: 2010-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s on a quest to lose himself, and he manages to do so quite spectacularly…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

The bass thrums through him, setting the blood in his veins on fire as he takes the first step into the nightclub. Bright lights flash and spin and reflect off every surface, and white fog follows his steps as he makes his way through the press of bodies to the bar.

He is not Sam Winchester tonight. He’s not a hunter, not a vessel, not a brother. He’s not anyone with a goddamn _destiny_ , tonight. Tonight, he’s just Sam, just another person looking to lose himself in the anonymity of a random club, looking to drown out the voices and faces in his memory with loud people and louder music and an atmosphere so unfamiliar that it can’t possibly be mistaken for someplace he would normally be found.

Dean wouldn’t recognize him right now, and he loses himself in the comfort of that, too. The black leather pants slung low around his hips, the matching jacket tossed over a black mesh shirt, even the lightly applied black kohl eyeliner and the small silver hoop that dangles from his left ear.

He downs a drink, slaps a few dollars down, and is already making his way onto the floor moments later. He needs to move, needs to remember what it is to be human, needs to forget, just for a few blessed moments, the screams of the damned and the devil’s rage ringing in his ears. Needs to forget the feeling of falling.

Bodies press and squeeze and gyrate and he closes his eyes, slips into a rhythm he hasn’t allowed himself to find since college, and even then, only rarely. Only when he needed to forget, to lose himself…just like now. This is his escape, his place to hide in plain sight.

His sinful sanctuary.

He’s dancing, already wrapped in the beat of the music and the other people moving against him, when he feels deliberate hands frame his hips, a hard body press against him from behind, soft breath drift across his ear. Instantly overcome with a feeling of rightness and safety he doesn’t expect and won’t question, because this…this is what he needs tonight. He leans back, sways to the music, presses tighter to his anonymous new friend.

The hands on his hips move, cup his ass, and that’s good…that’s _really_ good. The heat and the music, and the hands that feel strong and capable and everything he wants right now, and he can feel himself getting hard, already straining against the tight leather. He’s not Sam Winchester tonight, _can’t_ be Sam Winchester, and this is the exact opposite of everything Sam Winchester would ever dare to do.

He reaches back, grabs for a wrist, brings the hand forward to press against him. He feels the shaky exhale of the person he presses into, presses back so that he can feel the hardness digging into his ass, and one hand is kneading his erection through the soft leather and the other is still rubbing at his ass, and he just lets go of everything.

“I don’t want your name,” Sam growls. “I don’t want your face or your life story or…anything. Just _you_. Can you handle that?”

There’s a huff of laughter, another stroke against his ass and a low whisper in his ear. “I can handle that. Can _you_ handle _me_ is the question you should be asking.”

Sharp lust spikes through Sam, and he groans. “God, _yes_ ,” he grits out, and tightens his hold on the wrist he hasn’t wanted to let go of.

Another rumbling laugh vibrates against his spine, and then he’s being pushed through the throng of people, guided out the door, led down the street and toward a motel like so many countless motels he’s lived and breathed and suffered and died in. He never turns, just lets the hand at his back push him, fondle him whenever it wanders, which it does often. He breathes in the night air and feels himself relaxing in a way he hasn’t since he found himself out of Hell and standing at Lisa’s house. Since he saw Dean in the window, trying to move on with his life. Since he realized they could never go back to being what they’d been.

Since he’d run from that place and not looked back.

He waits outside the office, doesn’t watch as his mysterious companion goes inside to check them in, or when he comes back out and leads Sam to the very last room in the building. He steps inside and goes to turn on a light, but his hand is grasped, held tightly.

“We won’t need it.” Another whisper, another breath of sound in his ear.

It’s so dark, dark enough that Sam’s eyes can only adjust enough to make out the basic shape of the man who’s brought him here when he finally turns to face him. With the anonymity the darkness allows, Sam tugs the stranger to him and kisses him as he backs them up, hopefully toward the bed but it doesn’t even really matter at this point. He just _wants_ , and the details of how are secondary…unimportant.

His companion kisses with greed and lust and fire, and it fills Sam, makes him crave in ways he doesn’t think he ever has before. Teeth nip at his bottom lip, and when he gasps, the stranger’s tongue dives in to take, and take, and _take_. His hands reach back, grab Sam’s ass and pull Sam into him, so they’re pressed together in the way that counts, in the way Sam can _finally_ lose himself in. His cock is straining, painful in the confines of the leather that suddenly feels too tight, too constricting, and he can feel his companion’s digging into him as well.

“How do you want me?” he breathes as the man pulls away, kissing down Sam’s jaw, nipping along his neck and pushing the jacket off to suck at his collarbone.

The man doesn’t answer with words, just grasps at the hem of Sam’s shirt, practically tearing it off of him before trailing his hands over the newly exposed skin. He pushes, shoves Sam back onto the bed and crawls up after him, shedding his own clothing as he goes. Skin to skin, all Sam can do is moan, his head falling back against the pillow, legs spreading as his companion moves down again and nuzzles at his leather-clad crotch.

It’s with almost preternatural strength that those hands take him, flip him over like he weighs nothing, and there’s some part of his brain that wants to be concerned, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by the way they then move over his thighs, dig into his ass like they can’t get enough. The man is leaning over him again, breathing words into his ear. “I’m going to take you higher than anyone ever has before. This I swear to you.”

“Do it,” Sam says, his voice trembling as he struggles to draw a full breath.

He hadn’t even noticed the fly being undone on his pants, but the man drags them down with ease, peeling them away from Sam’s body in the most delicious way, and he was never so grateful as right this moment that he chose to forego underwear tonight. The man whispers his amused approval and spreads Sam’s legs as he drops a kiss to his spine.

Sam isn’t ready when he feels the tongue tracing down the crack of his ass, but he exhales when his cheeks are pushed apart, tilting his ass up to give his companion better access, and the low growl the man gives makes it worth it. When that tongue swipes lower, tracing over his entrance, and Sam shudders and goes hot all over, that’s worth it too. When it pushes into him, slowly at first before it begins to thrust, and he cries out brokenly…

That, also, is worth it.

Worth _everything_.

“God,” he breathes into the pillow, pushing back, wanting more, _needing_ more. “Oh my fucking God.”

The stranger’s laughter reverberates up his spine, has him almost blacking out as waves of heat and lust engulf him. There’s a shift as he pulls out of Sam, reaches from _somewhere_ and brings out a condom, the telltale crinkle of the wrapper alerting Sam to his intentions. He tilts his hips up higher, a clear invitation, and waits breathlessly.

Fingers trace along his jaw, glide over his lips, and Sam sucks them in greedily, moaning around them, wanton and desperate and ready, so ready, to have this, to _use_ this, to let go completely and let this cleanse him. The man’s other hand is tracing up and down his crack, rubbing at his spit-slicked entrance, and when the fingers pull out of his mouth and trade places with the fingers at his ass, he’s already eagerly anticipating having them inside him.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Two fingers push in together, and it’s too much, but it’s _so good_ , and it’s exactly what he needs, and with every push, with every stroke, he can feel a little more of _Sam Winchester_ falling away, leaving him lighter and freer, and that’s good, too.

“You’re mine right now, aren’t you?” his nameless companion grits out, and Sam can hear him slicking himself up now.

He shivers, nods against the pillow. “Yes. _Yes_ ,” he says, his voice muffled, and he can _feel_ the power those words have over the stranger. Can feel the way he’s overcome with it, with his need for Sam.

When he finally pushes in, there’s no gentleness and no words. There’s just a greedy thrust, a long, breathless moan, teeth at Sam’s shoulder and a hand at his cock, and then they’re moving together, dancing again, a much difference dance from the club, but still exactly what Sam’s wanted all along. The man gives and takes in equal measure, holds nothing back as he takes Sam higher than he’s ever been before, leaves him gasping and trembling and _ravenous_ for more, for _everything_. It’s brutal, and it’s messy, and he aches with the perfection of it.

His companion comes first, deep thrusts growing shorter and more erratic until he’s spilling hot and wet inside Sam, forehead pressed between Sam’s shoulder blades, and Sam follows almost instantly. He cries out, comes hard over the man’s fingers, painting ropes of thick white come on the bed sheets.

He collapses to his stomach in the mess and doesn’t care, _can’t_ care, can barely take a full breath right now, overwhelmed and overcome and so fucking _thankful_ , because for a few perfect, fleeting moments, he had it. He had exactly what he wanted, he had _peace_.

The stranger pulls out slowly, traces a hand down his spine and kisses his neck. “Well?”

Sam exhales. “You definitely kept your promise,” he laughs breathlessly. “My God, that was… _Jesus_.”

There’s a nip at his earlobe, followed by a tongue swiping briefly at the silver hoop, that has him shuddering deliciously all over again, and then a voice, a real voice, not just a whisper, in his ear. “I always said I would never lie to you, Sam.”

Sam’s blood freezes in his veins.

“ _Lucifer_.”


End file.
